


Sometimes second is best

by perilouslips



Series: "This one time, at training camp..." [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Akaashi Keiji in Love, Anal Fingering, Bokuto Koutarou Being Bokuto Koutarou, Bokuto Koutarou has a big dick, Boys Kissing, Grinding, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, M/M, Making Out, Oral Sex, Spicy language, Spit As Lube, Underage Drinking, clothes stay on while they get off, getting naughty in a closet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27059704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perilouslips/pseuds/perilouslips
Summary: Akaashi has beef with his first bottle-spinning game.How convenient, Bokuto is starving.[ In which Akaashi Keiji is entirely too much of a melodramatic lit nerd;but thanks in large part to the benevolence of the Universe(née Bokuto Koutarou),he gets some action anyway. ]
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji/Bokuto Koutarou
Series: "This one time, at training camp..." [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1974928
Comments: 21
Kudos: 199





	Sometimes second is best

**Author's Note:**

> If you’re curious about events leading up to where this story starts, I invite you to read the first section of [‘captains’](https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/26639155/chapters/64961548); this story is one of the events that gets underway during Kuroo’s brown-out.
> 
> Fair warning: I really outdid myself on ‘captains’, hopefully this piece isn’t a let-down in comparison.  
> It’s a moment I wanted to play out in advance of ‘captains’ part 2, I was trying to Do A Thing, and stuff gets sexy, so how bad can it be? 
> 
> also forgive my utter RUBEness: I was somehow unaware Akaashi is actually a second-year until now (he’s just so damn mature!), but obviously he’s totally welcome at the third-years-only party because he’s exceedingly well-behaved; he is basically an honorary third-year  
> also Bokuto would have complained if he wasn’t there and he’s loud enough already
> 
> ALSO I use "shorts" and "boxers" interchangeably because in my head, a bunch of bros wouldn't sweat chillin' in their boxers (for the boxer-wearers, at least); please ignore that there are technically girls in the vicinity who would possibly object to seeing boys wandering around in boxers, they are all very sound sleepers and thus blissfully unaware
> 
> the best, the beta, the [dzesi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dzesi/pseuds/dzesi)

“Ready?” Daichi asks. He is on his hands and knees in front of Akaashi.

Akaashi is also on his hands and knees. He nods, even though this is a dumb question. He has clearly been ready for this since the beginning of the game, because it is the _entire_ _point_ of the game.

But it is polite of Daichi to check, he supposes. Consent and all that.

Daichi leans in. His lips settle against Akaashi’s, soft, pliant.

And Akaashi considers.

The kiss is extremely pleasant, to say the least; Daichi’s mastery is obvious even in this chaste caress of mouths they are sharing. All in all this is an experience Akaashi would sign up for again, but the kiss he is receiving seems very different from the kiss Daichi shared with Kuroo and Akaashi has questions. _That_ kiss clearly involved a much more masterful technique, as Kuroo has been catatonic for the last couple of rounds. This seems a solid indicator that sorcery was involved (though perhaps the difference is mainly evident to Akaashi, he has been observing proceedings very closely).

Daichi abruptly shifts tactics and tilts his face to seal their mouths together completely, hot tongue smoothing between Akaashi’s lips.

Akaashi blinks at his close-up view of Daichi’s face, runs some internal checks and balances. He does not feel so deeply affected that he is at risk of temporary brain-stall, but the platonic respect he holds for Daichi is certainly shaking at the foundations. This kiss is powerful and very impressive.

_(Kuroo-san’s mild coma state certainly makes more sense now.)_

Akaashi wonders if Daichi would consider giving him a step-by-step tutorial for this method. Though he has little experience with what might be ‘best’ as far as kissing goes, Daichi strikes him as something of a genius—after all, Akaashi is only moved by the exceptional, and heat is singeing further down the back of his neck with each new flicker of Daichi’s extremely capable tongue. Perhaps there is something of a golden lip-tongue ratio to follow.

Being the best is not a control thing. It is a lifestyle choice, and one Akaashi chooses daily. He dreams of being the best in most things he attempts—assumes that most people do; there seems little point to this long human life otherwise, as far as Akaashi is concerned—but then again, in the grand scheme, he is a speck of dust in the cosmos. His choices and dreams probably matter very little.

But he is getting off-topic.

Suffice to say, wielding this kind of literal mind-blowing power over someone with lips alone would be intoxicating. It is, however, a bit of a pipe dream in the current moment, as it is impossible to become the best at anything without significant practice and thorough teaching. This is his first kiss, so Akaashi is behind in both of those regards.

Suga’s voice crawls closer on Akaashi’s right. “Fuckin’ A, save some fer the rest of us, Dai.”

A satisfying slap echoes off the walls in the same moment Daichi’s mouth jolts away. He sits back on his heels and cradles his backside, glaring daggers at his teammate, who leers at the pair of them while he scoots back to the wall.

“Consider it paybacks, ya damn hand murderer,” Suga says.

Akaashi suspects this is an exaggeration. Suga’s hands are operating at a high enough level to grab the dwindling rum from Asahi and pour it steadily into his mouth.

“Felt like it was working pretty well just now,” Daichi growls. He returns to his spot to glare at Suga from a closer distance.

“Hey Akaashi, you get to spin now!” Bokuto’s enthusiasm has not abated.

Then again, it rarely does outside of his regularly scheduled dips during volleyball games.

Akaashi leans forward to nudge the empty bottle into motion. It comes to a stop pointing at Ogano—because some people have all the luck, whether they like it or not.

Ogano jumps to his feet immediately, planting himself solidly in Camp Unappreciative. “Alright, I’m out, this game is fucking _rigged_.”

Akaashi pushes back into a kneel and frowns; as this is only slightly different from his default expression, no one seems to notice, but all things being equal, Ogano’s external tantrum is much louder than Akaashi’s internal frustration.

“That voodoo ritual Kuroo was performing earlier makes a lot more sense now,” Goora says.

Ogano arrests his stomp for the door, whirling and thrusting a middle finger at Goora. “Fuck off, fish-bastard, I don’t wanna hear it! You guys are way too comfortable with this shit and I am fucking done.”

“Leaving was always an option,” Nobuyuki says placidly.

Ogano ignores him, punching his other middle finger Kuroo’s way. “And fuck you in particular, you rooster-headed son of a bitch!”

Kuroo holds steadfastly to his prime objective, i.e. slumping against the wall and staring blankly at the floor a few feet in front of him.

“Tha’s uncalled for,” Suga drawls, pointing at Ogano with his bottle hand, “I bet his mother’s lovely.”

“From what I’ve heard, she actually is a bitch,” Yaku says.

“Well ’s not his fault then, is it,” Suga says, making sad eyes at Kuroo, “poor angel.”

Kuroo remains resolutely spaced-out, mind floating a safe distance from the peanut gallery.

“G’night, you gaping assholes,” Ogano bites. He heaves the door open aggressively and slides it back with similar force, slowing at the last second so that it does not actually make any noise when it closes.

“He tries so hard,” Goora intones.

“Probably still upset about that hickey,” Yaku says, gazing contemplatively across the room.

“Yeah, Kuroo really went to town on him,” Bokuto says, leaning back on his hands.

Suga’s boozy bleeding heart delays his brain function a few seconds more and he squawks a laugh, swerving the liquor in a gestural half-circle. “Jus’ like he can’t help it if ‘is dad’s a _cock_.”

He waits for a beat of painful, mildly confused silence, then looks around at his uncooperative laugh track. “Geddit? ‘cause he’s Ku- _Kuroooooo_.”

“Suga, what the fuck,” Asahi says, brows crowding together.

“He’s drunk,” Daichi says, leaning over to pull Suga’s well-nursed bottle away.

“And you’re not?” Asahi asks, voice pinching with irritation.

“Never said that. Don’t put words in my mouth, Azumane.” Daichi puts rum in his mouth instead.

Asahi hunches a little, mouth going sulky at the corners. “Excuse me for caring then,” he mumbles.

“You’re excused,” Daichi says.

Akaashi’s frown deepens slightly. He had been truly excited for his turn to spin this bottle and do some more friend-kissing, but Ogano seems to have taken the wind out of everyone’s sails.

It is somewhat late, however, and friend-kissing may be one of those Best Before Midnight things. Akaashi makes a mental note to look into it.

“My prime source of entertainment just walked out the door, so I think I’ll hit the hay,” Goora says. He stands and stretches. “This was fun, though.”

“ _Awww_ , how ‘bout one more smoochy, jus’ one,” Suga wheedles, turning his head and tapping his cheek.

Goora graciously acquiesces to this request only to be betrayed at the last minute when Suga whips his face back and deals Goora a resounding mouth-to-mouth smacker.

“Have you learned nothing?” Yaku grumbles.

Suga descends into a cackle that topples him backward onto the floor. Goora blinks stoically at him, then sways his head Yaku’s direction. “Sometimes you just want to see what’ll happen,” he says.

“Yeah, but like, literally anybody could have predicted that outcome,” Daichi points out, leaning back on one hand and pulling a knee up to prop his drinking elbow on.

Goora shrugs and straightens back up.

“Yolo, I guess,” Yaku says. He throws up a shaka hand sign. Akaashi is not sure why, Yaku’s body language does not seem to be hanging very loose at the moment.

Suga cackles harder, throwing his hands out to both sides. As he is conveniently located between his two teammates, Asahi catches one of those hands in the nuts. He yelps and cringes up into a ball.

“Also could have predicted that,” Daichi says, unsympathetic. The hand that bounced off his protective leg wall pats his ankle in tacit agreement. Yaku may or may not be observing this from the corners of his narrowed eyes.

Akaashi feels a nudge against his ribs. He turns his head. Bokuto is leaning toward him conspiratorially.

“You’re not really missing out with Ogano,” he murmurs. His breath is pleasantly warm in Akaashi’s ear.

Akaashi blinks slowly. “I will have to take your word for it,” he says.

“It’s legit,” Bokuto says. He blasts Akaashi with a sunny grin.

Akaashi blinks again.

Bokuto’s smiles are always irresponsibly bright, but Akaashi doubts he has any control over that. Stars always shine bright, thus a star’s smile has no other way to be. Then again, Akaashi supposes being in love makes everything more luminous than is strictly normal.

The human brain is fascinating in that way. Consciously Akaashi knows that Bokuto is a walking meat machine just like he is, but somehow Akaashi’s brain can only see Bokuto’s magnificent glimmering edges, the gold-limned contrails he leaves as he blasts along.

_(I suppose brains are also emotional creatures, in the end)_

Akaashi releases some air from his lungs in the form of a sigh and does another visual pass of the room.

The overall energy has lowered significantly with two participants gone and one down for the count. Suga has rolled around to paw at Asahi’s shins, curled on his side in front of the ace like the cat he may or may not be pretending to be right now—the drunk are clearly law unto themselves and none other. Daichi is likewise basking in his own low-quality Dionysian fantasy. Yaku’s focus is still cocked in Karasuno’s general direction; the expression on his face is complicated. Nobuyuki is watching Yaku watch the Karasuno boys with a fond curve to his mouth. Kuroo might be drooling, but it is hard to tell.

Akaashi releases another tinier sigh. “Perhaps we should call it a night ourselves, Bokuto-san,” he says, glancing back.

Bokuto is staring at Kuroo with raised eyebrows. “Wow, he’s really out of it,” he says.

Having just looked at Kuroo himself, Akaashi can attest to the truth of this statement, but is not really sure what Bokuto intends to do about it. He returns his gaze to the menagerie.

“Tha’s ‘cause Dai-Dai’s lips’re lethal,” Suga is saying.

“If that were true, you’d be _long_ dead,” Daichi mutters, brows flat.

Suga rolls half onto his back like a slug. He starts singing marginally off-key, “ _Once I raaaaan to you,_ uh-huh _now I runnnn from youuu…_ ” he slings a finger around to point at Daichi’s face, “ _this tain-ted love you’ve given I give alllllllllll a_ _boy could give youuuu_ \- ever’body!” He throws his pointing hand in the air and does nothing to prevent it from dropping back onto his own face.

“Never would have pegged Suga for a Marilyn Manson fan,” Yaku says. He shoves at Kuroo’s knee with his foot.

“But it’s a Soft Cell song, isn’t it?” Asahi looks scandalized for some reason.

“Manson covered it,” Yaku says, still casually kicking his captain.

Kuroo shifts his hand and smacks it down on Yaku’s foot, but otherwise continues to stare into the ether.

“Oh, he’s okay. Cool,” Bokuto says. He pops a hand against Akaashi’s shoulder. “Let’s head out then," hops up and waves, “We’re gonna dip, see you guys later!”

Akaashi gets to his feet and nods his goodbye, then follows Bokuto out the door. Bokuto slides it shut behind them, then falls into step with Akaashi, managing to stay quiet for all of five seconds before talking into Akaashi’s ear just shy of his normal volume. “So did you have fun?”

Akaashi nods and says, “Yes,” because he did have fun, even if the fun did not quite manifest in the way he was hoping for.

“Sweet,” Bokuto says, throwing an arm over Akaashi’s shoulders. “Got kinda worried, your eyebrows started going hard with that pinch-y tilt-y thing halfway through the game.”

It is always a coin-toss whether Bokuto will be able to explain his personal linguistic stylings, but Akaashi takes the chance. “Pinch-y tilt-y?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Bokuto says, quieter. He reaches over with his other hand to stroke a fingertip over the skin between Akaashi’s eyebrows, “it gets all pinched right here," drags his finger over Akaashi’s eyebrow, lightly tracing the curve, “and your eyebrows tilt like crazy. That’s how I know you’re getting stressed out.”

Akaashi’s heart does the funny hop-skip it does when Bokuto touches him for a protracted amount of time, the margins for which seem to shorten every day.

Bokuto's fingertip is a pinpoint of heat on Akaashi’s temple a moment longer before he drops his hand. He shows some impressive restraint, channeling his laughter imperative down to a breathy chuckle; it puffs out from between his teeth before he says, “I should know, I make you make that face a lot.”

This admission is a surprise, and Akaashi’s steps slow. He had not realized Bokuto was actually paying attention to the undercurrents swirling under the still waters of his primary expression.

Bokuto follows his lead as he gradually comes to a stop, but Akaashi has more thoughts to think before he can address this silent willingness to linger in early-AM hallways and flaunt their breach of curfew; namely, that Bokuto’s inherent effervescence is something that has endeared him to Akaashi since they met, but this quieter approach is revealing an entirely different animal, a perceptive creature that has been starting to show its face little by little over time.

The creature does nothing to circumvent Bokuto from descending into his infantile schtick on the volleyball court, so Akaashi is not quite sure what to make of it.

Still, that is the purest essence of Bokuto: which is to say, that he is full of surprises and makes it quite impossible to be bored in his presence. Every time Akaashi thinks he has him figured out, Bokuto flashes a hidden facet that sends Akaashi for a loop all over again.

And yet, this thundering daemon of inconsistency fits very neatly into Akaashi’s affections—one might almost say _perfectly_.

Is that irony? Akaashi thinks so.

Akaashi turns to look Bokuto in the face. Bokuto looks back at him, still smiling, still fulgent even in the dim ambient light of the hallway. The moon is shining on the other side of the building right now, yet Bokuto’s eyes are lit by his own internal corona, small windows filtering the painful brightness radiating from the incandescent photosphere of his superheated stellar core.

Akaashi does not compare Bokuto to a star for heart-fluttering romantic reasons. It is a simple fact of Bokuto’s existence as the fiery heavenly body that Akaashi revolves around, the guiding light that calls him back when he gets sucked too far into the black hole of his own negative thoughts.

Akaashi has always thought of Bokuto as brilliant; metaphorically speaking, anyway.

Bokuto leans closer, voice a few shades above a whisper, “Do you wanna talk about what’s bugging you?”

Akaashi was not previously aware that Bokuto had the ability to keep his voice so hushed. He turns his gaze to the floor, because the short answer is no.

The long answer is that what is bugging Akaashi is the fact that he was denied an easy excuse to kiss the love of his young life, and the only thing to blame is the shady whim of an empty whiskey bottle.

_(so it goes,  
this simple death of a chance for lips to meet)_

A touch dramatic perhaps, but he is a teenager after all. Even so, spilling all those guts in this hallway would be uncouth, so Akaashi stares at the floor in silence.

Perceptive as he was earlier, Bokuto does not read Akaashi’s blank-faced reluctance very well this time around. Akaashi sees him cock his head in his peripheral vision. “Is Daichi a bad kisser or something?”

Akaashi shakes his head slowly. “Sawamura-san was exceptionally good.”

Bokuto’s out-of-focus face angles floor-ward. Akaashi rewinds his own words in his head and panics a bit. “That is to say, he was exceptionally good but…”

Panic Brain flags this comment as well, reminding Akaashi that he is walking a fine line between answering Bokuto’s inquiry in a satisfactory manner and revealing his current deepest secret. He takes a steadying breath, then says, “but I wanted to get more practice in.”

Bokuto’s arm stiffens over Akaashi’s shoulders, and the symbolic record scratch is a deafening screech in Akaashi’s ear. Being as highly attuned to Bokuto as he is, Akaashi realizes in an instant that he has given him the wrong idea entirely. It had seemed like such a pleasantly generic, logical response in his head… so much for grace under pressure.

Panic Brain makes it clear that it would drive Akaashi to commit seppuku right now if there was anything sharp enough to do the job at hand.

“It was my first kiss,” Akaashi blurts quietly.

Bokuto’s arm stiffens further.

Akaashi’s brain bashes itself around in his cranium and screams loudly enough that any banshees within earshot would applaud. He is normally an expert at parsing Bokuto’s silences, but the framework in which this particular silence hangs is uncharted territory. Bokuto has not given Akaashi enough verbal signposts to determine a heading, and Akaashi is too flustered ( _flustered_ , can you imagine) to even look at him.

To theorize: Bokuto might be stuck on the idea of Akaashi wanting to practice kissing, because what is practice without real drive behind it, and what is Akaashi’s drive to practice kissing unless he has a person he wants to kiss?

Or maybe he is just chewing over Akaashi’s logic behind letting an arbitrary bottle spin decide who will grant him one of life’s most prestigious milestones, which is fair. Sometimes Akaashi wonders at his own lack of attachment to normal sentimental things, such as the magic of a first kiss.

But in his heart of hearts, he does not see what is so magical about a kiss with someone one does not have feelings for.

Besides, every kiss with someone new is technically a first kiss, so perhaps Akaashi just subscribes to different milestone standards than the general population.

Of course, he has said none of this out loud, and Bokuto has so far proven unable to osmose Akaashi’s thoughts (for better and for worse).

Akaashi’s brain hurls another generic, logical response onto his tongue, a Hail Mary molotov cocktail of panicked disclosure. “And practice is important, for beginners," he swallows, continues, "for everyone, really." Akaashi knows too well that Bokuto is aware of this, but feels right saying it anyway.

Another terrible frozen moment passes, then the arm over his shoulders melts back to flesh. Bokuto says, “Practice.”

Akaashi suffers a vicious combination of bated breath and wicked tenterhooks while he waits for Bokuto to drop a bigger pin on the perplexing map of his brain.

When Bokuto speaks again, his voice is a true whisper for the first time tonight. “You were excited to play… because you wanted to practice kissing.”

“Yes,” Akaashi breathes. He is not sure what else to say.

_(practice makes perfect, and I want to be perfect_  
_for you)_

He chances a glance over. There is something shy about the spread of Bokuto’s lips, but none of that shyness reaches his eyes, which flicker to meet Akaashi’s and sear his heart instantly.

“If you wanted practice, all you had to do was ask,” Bokuto says right before his mouth sails into Akaashi’s like a ship dashing itself on rocks.

Or maybe Akaashi is the ship and the jagged coastline is swarming out to meet him, catching him so thoroughly on its rough edges that he cannot possibly escape.

As if he wants to.

Akaashi’s head is still spinning when Bokuto starts pulling him down the corridor. He stumbles over his own feet in his hurry to follow, but Bokuto catches him easily, slips an arm around his middle, and hauls him into a hard right turn through a suddenly open door.

The door clicks shut behind them, sealing them in pitch darkness that smells like cleaning products. Akaashi stumbles again, this time tripping over something that may or may not be a mop. Bokuto helps him stay upright by surging against him and bodily shoving him into what feels like a stack of cardboard boxes; it is hard to say, as Akaashi’s spine is not the most reliable reporter of tactile details, and it is hard to focus on anything besides Bokuto’s mouth as he pushes it against Akaashi’s again.

Though his sample size is small, Akaashi feels satisfied declaring that he enjoys kissing very much; also that he _very_ much enjoys kissing Bokuto in the most particular sense.

Bokuto’s technique is more roughshod than Daichi’s, but the ace’s overall indelicacy is already so precious to Akaashi and this brusque handling is making his heart do some interesting things besides...

_(but I suppose that is just part of being in love?_  
_routine cardiac gymnastics—_

_**o h** )_

Bokuto has sweetened the deal by slipping Akaashi some tongue. Akaashi is quite unprepared for the red-hot rush of desire that sweeps through his veins like wildfire. Lacking a more sensible response, he hooks a leg over Bokuto’s hip and moans into his mouth like a common whore.

_(this_  
_this is_  
_**oh** this is_

  
_**oh this** _ **is** _)_

Akaashi tries in vain to fumble through his mental rolodex in search of information gleaned from Daichi earlier, but his brain is unhelpfully melting. Oh well. Akaashi has occasionally found moderate success with winging it, so he decides to relinquish some of his stalwart control and let himself fall into Bokuto’s rhythm for once. He gentles his clutch on Bokuto’s shirt, holds him close with his wraparound leg instead, softens himself against Bokuto’s torso and relaxes his neck into the backward tip Bokuto is imposing with the passionate sweep of his tongue.

As he completes his unwinding, Akaashi feels the slightest pause in Bokuto’s tongue—a breath of attention, a tentative pull at reins that are normally under the guidance of very fastidious hands—then Bokuto’s lips are curving as he runs for the fences.

He slides big hands up over Akaashi’s shoulders, tangles them in his hair, tilts Akaashi’s head to a more advantageous angle and topples them into the full-blown make-out session Akaashi has been yearning for since the kissing game at the party was suggested. He slots their lips together and hums sensual nonsense down his live-wire tongue as he twines it around Akaashi’s—and Akaashi contemplates dropping another level of personal restriction.

He inhales as calmly as he can (that is to say, not very) and settles next to the pool of carnal urges simmering in his gut; Akaashi goes to great lengths to avoid this part of himself outside the safety of his locked room, but instinct is driving him toward it. He inhales again, deeper, dips a cautious toe in…and throws himself in headfirst a moment later because it feels too overwhelmingly good not to. He flattens his palms on Bokuto’s chest and licks intently at Bokuto’s tongue within the cavern of his own mouth.

_(desire is divine_

_I am_  
_too human)_

The action feels clumsy, but Bokuto presses up against him with a moan to match Akaashi’s sluttish one earlier. He frees a hand from Akaashi’s hair and slides it up under his leg, gripping and pulling him closer, snugging himself fully between Akaashi’s thighs. Akaashi takes this as a positive sign and pushes on, taking his tongue on an eager spelunking expedition into the wonders of Bokuto’s mouth.

_(what_  
_**wonders** )_

Bokuto is gloriously solid against him and his tongue is so hot in Akaashi’s mouth—a relay granting direct access to the stellar core that powers him, all 27 million degrees of it, plus whatever paltry amount of heat Akaashi has on offer to add to the nuclear fusion churning away behind Bokuto’s washboard abs.

_(how **wondrous** )_

Considering the rapidly escalating intimacy between them, Akaashi feels quite free to touch those abs. He has been strongly (but politely, distantly) aware of Bokuto’s beautiful muscle tone for a long time, and overflows with gratitude for this allowance to painstakingly massage his fingers over every deliciously sculpted ridge of muscle on Bokuto’s torso. It is the stuff of many dreams, and living one’s dreams is exhilarating.

This appreciation condenses into an urgent throb below Akaashi’s belt-line. He wonders if Bokuto will mind that his sumptuously feral approach to tongue-kissing has caused Akaashi to become erect.

Akaashi’s brain dazedly points out that with the way they are pressed together, Bokuto has almost certainly been able to feel his erection coming on this whole time and has not shown any inclination to cease winding their tongues together, so it is probably fine.

And it is. In fact, it is better than fine, because Bokuto groans into his mouth and gyrates up into Akaashi with luxuriant fervor, which makes the situation happening in _his_ shorts come into very clear and—oh wow—very _large_ focus.

This is a lot of information for Akaashi to take in at once—in all fairness, the checkmarks on his list of potentially-romance-adjacent firsts are stacking with incredible speed—so Akaashi slips his arms around Bokuto’s neck, completes his leg halo around Bokuto’s middle, and treats himself to a break from thinking.

Or rather he tries to. But Bokuto kisses like a beast might, the kind of beast with sharp teeth ( _wicked_ teeth that are finding their wicked way down Akaashi’s throat _oh_ ), and the motion of his hips flows like a gazelle bounding over the raw earth of the savannah—albeit a gazelle with a _monumental_ dick.

_(sweet_  
_merciful_  
**_gods_ **  
_**a b o v e** )_

Akaashi heaves air heavenward, praying his meager offering of impassioned breath will suffice for them to grant him further grace here in this blessed janitorial closet.

He cannot be 100% sure without more thorough investigation, but his impression of Bokuto’s below-decks situation gives him feelings roughly equivalent to what one might feel before embarking on a formidable mountain summit: a shiver of awestruck nerves and an abiding desire to climb that motherfucker before the day is out.

Of course the sun is well below the horizon already, but Akaashi is not one to quibble logic with his erotic metaphors; the sheer size of the manhood rubbing against him transcends the need for sense.

_(so many opportunities and yet_  
_I have never_  
_even_  
_**tried**_  
_to peek in the showers…_  
**_I am a fool_ **  
_polite, but a **fool** )_

Akaashi is hungry to mold himself against that handsome cliff face and explore further, to sneak his hands into Bokuto’s most venerable crevices; unfortunately, Akaashi only has two hands and they are both still busy mapping out every divot of Bokuto’s muscular torso, so: all things in good time, as they say.

Akaashi used to believe that adage wholeheartedly, but in this moment he can see the dreadful shortsightedness of it.

_(patience is a virtue._  
_and yet_  
_virtue is so bitter when the fruits of pleasure are ripe,_  
_and they_  
_are_  
_ripe_  
_to_  
_**burst i n g** ) _

Akaashi may not be falling into the stupor Kuroo demonstrated, but the sensory deprivation of being in total darkness is an adventure all its own. It amplifies every debauched dig of that monstrous stiffness through Bokuto’s shorts and provides a soft place for Akaashi’s gasping breaths to hang—strident and ragged—punctuated by the slick susurrus of Bokuto tasting the length of his pulse.

Akaashi wants to taste him reciprocally, his mouth ( _again_ ), his tongue ( ** _again_** )—every scrap of flesh Bokuto will let him reach, he wants to leave a snail-trail of saliva all over.

He had not previously realized he was this kind of person, yet he is not surprised about the reveal; Bokuto habitually illuminates the darkest corners of his mind, so it is only natural that he has the power to drag Akaashi’s howling, slavering soul into the light.

Abruptly Bokuto props Akaashi up against the boxes so that he is half-lying on top of them, but does not let go. He brings his other hand down from Akaashi’s hair to match the pressure of his fingers on Akaashi’s other thigh, gripping him on both sides to better facilitate the grind of his hard-on in the cleft of Akaashi’s ass. The rub of that large hardness in such a sensitive place sends superheated thrills through Akaashi’s belly, and a gossamer breath flutters in his throat.

_(delicious)_

Then Bokuto’s hand slinks through the slit in the front of Akaashi’s boxers and Akaashi’s dick is drawn into Bokuto’s palm like there are magnets implanted under his skin, hips shuddering irresistibly upward. His head drops back, moan dripping out of him like honey.

_(de_  
**_lish_ **  
_ous)_

Bokuto’s strokes are exquisite, luscious and crude all at once. He is using what feels like double his usual amount of enthusiasm—and Bokuto’s usual enthusiasm is uncompromising enough, so any more than this might cause significant penile injury—so Akaashi responds with what feels like double his usual amount of pre-ejaculate. Perhaps pre-ejaculatory fluid takes thoughts along with it when it leaves the body, because Akaashi feels like he is losing his mind drop by drop. He pants and flexes up into the tightness of Bokuto’s sturdy fingers as they pull his foreskin up and down over the weepy head of his cock with reckless abandon.

Bokuto has never given Akaashi the faintest idea that he thinks about him this way at all, but Akaashi cannot explain the intensity of his touch any other way. The darkness is bringing many things to light and Akaashi feels his hidden passions bubbling under the surface of his skin, pool of urges at a rolling boil now and driving him toward the edge of frenzy.

“Bokuto-san,” he murmurs, telegraphing his urgency for more with a determined writhe against the thickness lining his ass-crack.

Bokuto pulls in a gusty inhale, hand stilling on Akaashi’s cock. “…yeah?” he whispers.

“ _More_ ,” Akaashi whispers back. He hears Bokuto suck in another sharp breath. His hand disappears from Akaashi’s boxers.

Akaashi has one single second to be disappointed before the hand reappears, wedging itself under one of his butt-cheeks. Bokuto taps the side of his other leg, a request to release that side of the leg cage, then wraps his arm around Akaashi’s back to lift him off the boxes (as much as one is able to lift something made structureless by pleasure, _gods_ he has destroyed all of Akaashi’s bones but one). He holds Akaashi close again so they are chest to chest, and hitches the leg whose butt-cheek he palmed higher up around his torso.

Akaashi leans in to find Bokuto’s lips and finds Bokuto’s cheek instead; when he shifts his mouth in a sideways trajectory, Akaashi discovers Bokuto’s hand where his mouth should be. Akaashi does not consider the why of this, merely presses a warm kiss to Bokuto’s knuckles. They slide away and Akaashi presses forward again.

Bokuto’s mouth meets his with comparable urgency and sweeps Akaashi so thoroughly into ardency again that he does not notice the hand skulking down the back of his boxers.

Rather, he does not notice until Bokuto’s tongue is back on his throat tracing delicious circles on the thin skin there, and his arms are so strong around Akaashi but one is holding Akaashi more vertically than the other, and Akaashi’s brain is just making the connection with the angle of that arm and the warm presence against his skin under his clothing when something firm presses wetness over his asshole.

“Bokuto-san, that is dirty,” Akaashi gasps, because that is what you are supposed to say when someone touches your asshole with a wet finger.

“No it’s not,” Bokuto purrs huskily into his neck, “I was there when you took a shower.”

Akaashi wonders if this implies that Bokuto was watching very closely when he washed his ass, and then considers the implications of that. They are surprising, to say the least.

Because Akaashi has been partial to Bokuto ever since he saw him slam a volleyball over the net. He has been weak to Bokuto ever since the ace singled him out with that jaunty smile and made Akaashi _his_ setter.

He has never considered that the partiality might run both ways, at least not to this exact extent.

Though… it would explain Bokuto’s prodigious eagerness to provide Akaashi with kissing practice. That is not in the realm of things people normally do for mere teammates, or even for friends in most cases. And now Bokuto is sucking on Akaashi’s neck in a way that is certifiably more than friendly, lazily circling one of his more intimate entrances with a freshly-licked digit.

Safe to say mutual partiality is on the table.

The dark is absolute, but Akaashi closes his eyes anyway, gradually relaxing his weight into Bokuto’s supporting arm so he can focus on relaxing a more specific muscle group. As a firm believer that masturbation should be part of any responsible person’s care regimen, Akaashi is also a strong proponent of dual stimulation whenever one has time to devote to it. As such, Akaashi fingers himself almost nightly and is well-practiced in loosening to intrusion; but his finger-banging jerk sessions are usually quite clinical until base desires thrash him wildly enough to let the animal out, and Akaashi’s animal has been pacing the cage since long before Bokuto breathed a spark between the bars—the moment their lips touched was the moment the lock hit the ground in pieces.

Now the incentive plying Akaashi open is so sweet he relaxes in record time; Bokuto’s finger slides in up to the second knuckle and his groan is loud against Akaashi’s throat. He works his finger back and forth with deliberate languor, mouthing up the tendon on the side of Akaashi’s neck, grinding their erections together through their clothes. It feels unbelievable, but Akaashi is drooling for more already; he has hungered for Bokuto’s touch for too long, playing out scenes of exuberant intimacy in his head a thousand different ways with his own fingers buried inside himself and his ace’s name on his tongue—he needs more, so much _more_.

So he lets go of one more restriction, slides impatient fingers into Bokuto’s hair to anchor his hold in the surprisingly soft strands, keens breathlessly, “More, Bokuto-san, _please_.”

The rhythm of Bokuto’s finger stutters. Akaashi feels his panting breath shift sideways across his throat at the same time as Bokuto retracts his hand, then hears the delightfully raunchy spatter of Bokuto hawking spit onto his fingers—Akaashi rarely watches porn, but when he does it is primarily for the noise, harsh breathing and libidinous wetness echoing through his headphones to layer a background soundtrack of naughtiness under his mental film reel—and Akaashi is moaning again before Bokuto even gets his hand back in his shorts.

He sticks his tongue in Bokuto’s mouth posthaste; Bokuto’s tongue meets his with equal force, greedily lapping up every sound that slides from Akaashi’s throat. He starts working the second finger into Akaashi’s ass—massaging it past the rim slowly, slowly deeper, _deeper_ —and Akaashi ruts against him like a man possessed, sucking on Bokuto’s tongue like a man fifty years in the desert who has just been handed an ice-cold Big Gulp. He feels his ace’s wide, hot palm come to rest flush against his ass, and Bokuto swirls his fingers in a gentle circle, brushing Akaashi’s prostate with maddening delicacy.

Oh no, no no no. The time for delicacy is _months_ past.

Akaashi bucks against Bokuto’s fantastically hard body, and throws his head back, rabid and whining. “Bokuto-san, _make me **cum**_.”

Akaashi has never said that word out loud before, but in this moment, nothing feels more right.

And it is.

Bokuto growls delight into the hollow of his throat, stiffens his fingers, and goes straight for the kill, lashing fervent pleasure over Akaashi’s prostate.

It is indescribably good, far outstripping Akaashi’s fantasies—Bokuto achieves a stretch with two fingers that takes at least three of Akaashi’s to replicate _oh, oh yes_ —and the sensation of that hardness, _Bokuto’s_ hardness, his _hard cock_ rubbing against Akaashi’s magnifies the rising fever tenfold. Akaashi sways, grunting and wild as the animal ascends, yanking at Bokuto’s hair and riding the front of his torso like they are aiming for a triple crown. Bokuto rises to meet him, takes his neck and charges toward the finish line with his lips marking Akaashi’s throat.

Suddenly Akaashi feels himself clamping down, squeezing around Bokuto’s fingers in a way that makes him see stars, a rapturous cosmos with his personal star at the center. Pleasure draws up tight through his belly as Bokuto’s talented fingers hit the bullseye once—twice—thrice, then Akaashi’s orgasm smashes down and he is spurting all over the inside of his boxers, seizing in Bokuto’s arms and moaning far beyond acceptable volume levels for someone trying to be secretive about their nookie.

But how fitting that his ace is the one spiking this level of ecstasy through him. Akaashi feels near delirious with the poetry of it all.

Bokuto bears him over the waves, arms strong, fingers gentling but still relentless in rowing him through the pleasure tide. He makes no comment about having to support Akaashi’s entire weight, just soothes soft lips and tongue over his Adam’s apple while Akaashi mewls and turns entirely to jelly. Gradually Bokuto solidifies his hold and lowers them down, letting Akaashi’s limbs fold up and to either side, settling him back against the boxes.

Akaashi has no protest about this repositioning. He does find complaint with the orgasm-induced suppression of his fine motor control—fumbling his own handling after the incredible show of dexterity he was just treated to would be somewhat embarrassing, but Akaashi is beyond desperate to get into Bokuto’s pants. For his part, Bokuto seems largely unconcerned with Akaashi’s next move. He does not hesitate to shuffle into a crouch between Akaashi’s flopped legs, knees pressed to his inner thighs, bold hand pressed to his cheek, thumb brushing Akaashi’s lower lip to zero in on its location for Bokuto’s lips to touch down moments later.

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi murmurs against his mouth, wanting to voice _so much_ , mostly about his strong preference that Bokuto take all his clothes off and put his penis in Akaashi’s mouth, but the hormone swamp inundates him, seeping into his veins and filling them with sex-doped mud.

It occurs to him that the hand on his face is not the same hand that was lately in the depths of his ass. No, _that_ hand is likely responsible for the quick slick sounds permeating the darkness between their bodies. Akaashi keeps his lips open to Bokuto’s, shares his breath, clings to it as he skims unsteady fingers up Bokuto’s iron-tensed thigh, over the bunched boxer fabric and the bare skin of his hip to the steel of his forearm, angled out and bouncing rapidly in a motion Akaashi is intimately familiar with.

Bokuto is shamelessly jerking himself off and panting against Akaashi’s face, hot and urgent, breath just a pace slower than the beats of slickery in the air. “You’re so hot, ‘kaashi,” he whispers between Akaashi’s lips.

And Akaashi learns that even though he just ejaculated, he can start funneling blood back to his dick almost immediately with the right stimulus at hand (figuratively and literally).

Akaashi trails the tips of his fingers along Bokuto’s wrist, lingering a few seconds on the knob of bone there before sliding his fingertips down the underside of Bokuto’s cock and wrapping his grip around the base—so godsdamned _thick_ , well beyond the span of the fingers Akaashi just had inside him—and Akaashi is swallowing spit, so starving is he to get fucked open with this most choice cut of meat, this absolute juggernaut Bokuto has been hiding in his shorts all along.

Eventually, anyway. A closet does not strike Akaashi as the ideal location to embark on that particular venture for the first time, so he will have to content himself with fooling around for now. But this is hardly a shame.

His firm hold on Bokuto’s cock elicits a twitch, and Akaashi soaks in the breath-stuttered groan Bokuto releases as he lets go of himself. Akaashi strokes up—leisurely, maintaining even pressure—and marvels at the weight of Bokuto in his hand, the way Akaashi’s long fingers fit so neatly in the groove right under the crown, the way Bokuto trembles and whines when he curves his stroke up over the big juicy head of it, **_oh_**.

Akaashi wants.

Akaashi needs.

Akaashi wants and needs so much he is getting dizzy.

He reaches up with his other hand and finds a new grip in Bokuto’s hair. He pulls him down close and drops grasping little kisses all over his lips, mouthing the tender flesh until Bokuto moans and seals their mouths together again, plunging his tongue past Akaashi’s and coaxing an equal moan out of him. Bokuto’s free hand feels its way up the skin of Akaashi’s thigh, thumbs lazy desire into the flesh there in tandem with Akaashi’s covetous grip, sliding up and down Bokuto’s length with mounting speed.

Akaashi is all impatience and greed. He wants to be the cause of Bokuto coming undone, as Bokuto was to him. He wants the spasm and mess, wants to catch Bokuto’s seed and smear it down his naked thighs, taste his way down those iron-clad abs and stick his tongue in places no one else has touched, much less licked, much _less_ …

“Bokuto-san,” Akaashi says into his mouth.

“A-Ak, _hah_ , _‘kaashi_ ,” Bokuto pants back. His tongue flicks over Akaashi’s lower lip; Akaashi catches it in the seam of his mouth and teases the tip with his own. This makes Bokuto moan like he is caught in a painful trap, but the volume of precome covering Akaashi’s hand indicates otherwise.

Akaashi sucks adoringly on Bokuto’s tongue, murmurs around it, “I want to make you cum.”

The supremely naughty word strikes again and Bokuto pumps into Akaashi’s hand once—twice—thrice, shoving his tongue in Akaashi’s mouth again the moment he releases liquid warmth all over Akaashi’s hand, whining low in his throat with each steady pulse of his cock. The thick pitter-pat of his cum dripping to the floor between them is so perfectly lewd Akaashi wishes he had been recording it for future needs. As it is, he massages Bokuto’s tongue with his, rubs a subtle thumb pad under the head of his cock, and relishes the beauty of this lived dream-state.

Their tongues slow with their breathing until Bokuto is cupping Akaashi’s face and kissing him with lips only. It is so sweet it makes Akaashi’s dick ache.

Because Akaashi is fully erect again, as a matter of course. No matter how much control he manages to obtain in life, drunks and erections alike follow their own rules.

Even so, he has no intention of mentioning or indicating this. Many things cease to be problems if one can ignore them long enough, and it is dark enough in the halls that they can probably get all the way back to their futons without Bokuto realizing Akaashi is carrying another active torch for him, so to speak.

_(greed is impossible to satisfy, so I should not try_  
_rather_  
_I should cherish_  
_what small beauty I am allowed)_

His appreciation and gratitude are noted. The gods shower grace upon him again.

An invisible string of caprice pulls Bokuto’s hands down Akaashi’s chest, spreads his fingers over Akaashi’s hips in a way that makes the new tent in his boxers extremely obvious. Bokuto’s lips pause, then pull back as his fingers press into the surface tension of the taut fabric. A hot hand glazes up the nerves on the underside of Akaashi’s erection, radiating pleasure into his belly as hot fingers slip in the front of his boxers and wrap around his cock once more.

Bokuto says, “Again? Wow!” A puff of giggle caresses Akaashi’s face, followed by a brief caress of lips, then there is nothing to see and everything to feel as Bokuto’s energy shifts downward.

Akaashi tries to speak, tries to tell Bokuto he is fine, _more_ than fine, but even that would be a lie because Akaashi is chomping at the bit for everything Bokuto is willing to give. So he suffocates gently on his own meaningless words while Bokuto hunkers down over his lap, works Akaashi’s throbbing dick out the front of his underwear, pulls his soppy foreskin down, and licks a broad stripe up under the head.

From the bottom of his soul, Akaashi does not mean to yell, and yet—it is pure luck that the coaches have slept so soundly tonight, because even if one were to descend on their closet this very minute, there is no way in heaven or hell that Akaashi would be able to stop now. He spreads his legs wide, tangles his hands in Bokuto’s hair, and presses himself into that hot mouth with a guttural moan.

 _(_ gods _preserve me,_  
_I am sim p le_  
_f l e s h )_

The groan Bokuto lets out vibrates straight to Akaashi’s core, hands snaking under and over Akaashi’s thighs for more stability to bob his mouth over the tender head of Akaashi’s cock, sucking viciously with every upward pull. Akaashi profanes the dark with wordless lust straight from the most ungodly part of his being, counting down to the inevitable, pleasure tightening silken around his neck with every sloppy swipe of Bokuto’s tongue up the side, along the vein, around and around the tip _oh_ _f_ —

“ _-uckfuckfuck— **Bokuto** , **fuck**_ ,” Akaashi heaves. His fingers tighten painfully in Bokuto’s hair as he shoves his cock solidly into Bokuto's mouth, hips flexing, spilling love juice all over Bokuto’s tongue. It has nothing to do with mess-prevention and everything to do with the carnal nature of one’s lover consuming one’s seed (as if they have not already made a mess in this closet—sorry, Janitor-san); Akaashi’s libertine ideations are too close to the surface right now for him to behave in any kind of civilized manner.

But Bokuto does not seem to mind. In fact, his fingers flatten over the tops of Akaashi’s thighs and he slurps around Akaashi’s pulsating cock with a distinct air of satisfaction. Akaashi pants and strokes heavy fingers through his hair, jerking a little when Bokuto grips him at the base to give him one last hard suck before tucking his dick back in his boxers.

“I’ve never heard you swear before, Akaashi,” Bokuto murmurs.

He drops a warm kiss against Akaashi’s belly through his t-shirt and leaves a trail of after-burn all the way up to Akaashi’s lips, where Akaashi dips his tongue into Bokuto’s mouth without hesitation—he thinks he can taste himself there, but cannot be sure—and Bokuto hums against him, pressing closer for a moment before pulling a few millimeters away. Akaashi locks his fingers together behind Bokuto’s head, unwilling to let him get too far away even now.

Bokuto coughs a tiny laugh out of his throat, pushes his forehead against Akaashi’s. “Hope that was, uh, pretty good for you,” he says.

The note of shyness in his voice is foreign to Akaashi. He wonders where Bokuto is going with it, and hopes his silence is properly translating back as _I am listening but please hurry because I require more of your mouth on mine ASAP._

Bokuto continues, “I’m sure there’re plenty of people with more experience than me, but-“

Akaashi is already speaking quiet truth into Bokuto’s mouth. “You are better,” he whispers, “so much better,” tasting the flesh of his lips so delicately, “for me.”

“Yeah?” Bokuto breathes back, and Akaashi can hear relief.

“Yes,” Akaashi says, because it is the truth.

As if to underline this a few times, Bokuto leans in again and ransacks Akaashi’s mouth with his tongue, groaning low in his throat. Akaashi wraps his arms around Bokuto’s neck and holds on, languishing in the sensual devastation visited upon him.

He chose to hitch himself to this star many moons ago; he has never questioned his choice to do so, and continues not to.

Akaashi dreams of being the best in most things he attempts. Bokuto thinks he is the best already, at least some of the time. Together, they make up almost one entire best being, if such a thing exists.

The way Akaashi sees it, logically The Best is a very particular shade of perfection. Rigorous practice is the only way to achieve it. Practice makes perfect, as they say.

It is a good thing Bokuto is always game for practice.

Akaashi smiles against Bokuto’s mouth. As long as Bokuto is around to light their path, he is always game for practice too.

————————————

_“It sounds plausible enough tonight, but wait until tomorrow. Wait for the common sense of the morning.”_

_ \- H.G. Wells, The Time Machine _

Akaashi wakes with this inauspicious quotation forefront in his mind. He blinks at the ceiling, eyes tight from too-little sleep, then turns his head to the left.

The faint smell of breakfast sprinkles the air. Most of his teammates’ futons are empty, Bokuto’s among them.

Akaashi rolls his entire body to the right, curling towards the safety of the wall.

Everything is probably fine.

Akaashi repeats this to himself a few times on the off-chance repetition will make it feel more true.

But really, there is no need to be anxious. It is not like what happened between them—between Bokuto and him, in that closet, in the dark of the damned fallible night—is something that would destroy the bonds they have if…

If Bokuto has changed his mind.

Akaashi feels sick. He is probably not alone in feeling this way this particular morning, but he is possibly the only person feeling this way because of romantic fallacy. Though it seems somewhat irrational to worry, considering the breadth of what came to pass between them, Akaashi cannot help how the thought latches onto him.

Luckily, the common sense of morning is not something Bokuto will ever embrace.

Knees galumph down behind him, belying the gentleness of the large palm that smoothes over his bicep a second later. Bokuto’s heat hovers down over his ear. “You okay, ‘kaashi? Need some water or something?”

Bokuto’s voice is so quiet that Akaashi turns immediately to assess him, but those golden eyes he loves are as clear and stunning as usual, blinking concern at him, hand still soft on his arm.

And Akaashi considers.

His heart is officially a Puddle of Mush; this is acceptable somehow. Even so, he clears sleep from his throat and asks, “are you okay?” back, just to be absolutely sure.

Bokuto’s head swings around, noting the stragglers in the room—Konoha is not a morning person, but is nodding awake facing the other direction at least, while Komori is defiantly suffocating himself with his pillow—then leans down and gives Akaashi a kiss that tastes like omelette. He pulls back with a sparkly smile, indicating that the kiss was his answer.

Akaashi receives this transmission loud and clear, and pushes himself to sitting. He turns to lift onto his knees, then turns again to face Bokuto in perfect seiza. He glances across the room—Konoha might have fallen back asleep sitting up, actually—and takes a gamble on how discreetly he can yank his ace forward and stuff his mouth full of tongue.

Not very, it turns out, but their few scattered teammates are gamely fighting the daylight and Bokuto is loud 99.9% of the time, so maybe it will go unnoticed anyway.

Akaashi’s mouth probably does not taste as nice as Bokuto’s, but he does not care; he needs to settle his tumultuous feelings and this seems the best remedy.

Bokuto’s mouth is surprise-stiff for half a second before molding to Akaashi’s affectionately horny intent, and Akaashi sinks gladly into a period of lazy tongue acrobatics. When the paranoid grip on his mind eases, he pulls back an inch and stares at Bokuto’s eyelids. “I am sorry. In the future, I will brush my teeth first.”

Bokuto’s lids lift halfway, golden eyes hazy like sunrise through fog. “Bwuh?” he articulates.

Akaashi blinks, clarifies. “I am sorry for my morning breath.”

“Oh?” Bokuto asks. His lids lift fully, though the haze does not. “I didn’t even notice, I’m just excited I finally get to kiss you whenever.”

The haze in his eyes appears to be pure lust, as Bokuto immediately leans in to return Akaashi’s tongue volley with that extra enthusiasm Akaashi got to experience for the first time a few hours ago. They enjoy some mouth-to-mouth sweetness that swings spicy when Bokuto’s hands start to wander, fingers pressing lingeringly up along Akaashi’s thighs.

Further escalation is interrupted by a soul-wrenching groan. “Christ on a cracker, it's _7 AM_ , you fucking horn-dogs.” Komori appears to be more awake than Konoha and does not seem to appreciate their display.

“He’s right,” Bokuto says against Akaashi’s mouth. He pulls back and grins, eyes skimming down Akaashi’s torso. “We should probably hit the showers, get wet before we sweat.” The graphic implications of this sentence are only enhanced by the wide-eyed eyebrow wiggle Bokuto finishes it with.

Akaashi’s heart beats double-time, unbothered by the retching noise Komori makes into his pillow. Bokuto grabs his own pillow as he gets to his feet and hurls it across the room at him.

Akaashi watches the pillow make a direct hit, watches Komori flick a middle finger in their general direction, inhales and says, “You lead. I will follow.” He unfolds himself into a standing position.

“Huh?” Bokuto says. He is staring at Akaashi with question all over his face. Akaashi blinks at him, unsure where clarity was lacking in his previous statement.

Bokuto grabs his hand and squeezes it, grin gentling around the edges. “We can just go together, Akaashi.”

Akaashi blinks, then smiles. “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Akaashi is such a precious overdramatic dweeb, no wonder he ends up editing shonen manga
> 
> also guess I have a thing for excessive precum, almost like I find arousal really sexy or something??? paging Dr Freud 
> 
> but what I really want y’all to take away from this is that, on a spiritual level, Asahi is an 80s baby
> 
> Also tried to fix the thought formatting but if it’s still garbage on mobile I AM DEEPLY SORRY; might be entering a friends to enemies to lovers cycle with ao3, her coding is trying me
> 
> come yell at me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/perilouslips)  
> unless you came here from there, in which case I will YELL AT YOU  
>  ~~with deep affection~~


End file.
